


Cakes and Ale with Agnes Nutter

by HolRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), English Civil War, Healing, M/M, Missing Scene, Witchcraft, Witches, Witches charm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 05:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: What happens when one supernatural entity meets another. Will an angel listen to a witch?





	Cakes and Ale with Agnes Nutter

**London, August 2018**

Aziraphale sets his cocoa down on the small desk he has at the back of his bookshop and draws up the chair that stands next to it. Sitting, he looks at the rather battered book with slightly loose binding that lies on top of the desk. Normally finding a book this rare would have him in a delightful state of anticipation, but not this time, under the present circumstances there is too much riding on finding the vital information to feel any pleasure. He sighs, feeling somewhat anxious, questions teaming through his mind. Will this give him the answers he needs? Will he be able to persuade the other angels if he finds what he is looking for? And the one that unsettles him the most, should he have told Crowley about this as soon as he realised they had the book in their possession and had thought to look in it for answers?

‘Buck up, Aziraphale!’ he mutters, drawing on a pair of white cotton gloves kept specially for handling delicate items and gently opening the venerable volume. The title page is typical of the time, he sees, each line in a different typeface announcing boldly:

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter

Being a Certaine and Precife Hiftory From the Prefent Day Unto the Endinges of This Worlde

Containing Therein Many Diverfe Wonderes and Precepts for the Wife

More Complete Than Ever Before Publifhed

CONCERNING THE STRANGE TIMES AHEAD

_and events of a wonderful nature_

Messrs Bilton & Scaggs 1655

The paper is creamy white and in good condition, the page marred only by a coloured pencil drawing, evidently done by a child, of a smiling woman in a green dress wearing a pointed black hat surrounded by a rainbow aura. Aziraphale supresses a small shudder on seeing this and leafs through the volume, stopping at the first of the short numbered paragraphs that catches his eye:

_3008 When the angel readeth these wordes of mine, in his shoppe of other menns books then the final days are certaine upon us. Open thine eyes to understand, open thine eyes and reade, think and thou shalt remember me, I do say, foolish Principalitie, for thy cocoa doth grow cold._

Aziraphale starts back as he takes in what he has read, his eyes widening, hand flying to his mouth as it rounds in an ‘o’ of surprise. He looks across at his cup and sees the dark skin that has formed over the surface of his hot drink.

‘Oh Agnes, so it was _you_ ‘ he breathes.

***

**Lancashire, October 1651**

Aziraphale trudged along the road, his exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. He felt a small pang of regret for the horse he had ridden originally, taken from him by Parliamentarian troops just before the Battle of Preston in 1648. He didn’t do well with horses, aside from the eternal discomfort, they sensed his power, the fact that he wasn’t at all what they were expecting to have on their backs, and it made them skittish and difficult to control. Despite that, he could have done with it now, tired as he was. Walking everywhere was enervating on top of everything else. He didn’t dare travel in any other way, however, anything unusual being noticeable and being noticed was dangerous in these troubled times.

He had been in England and the Borders of Scotland since the hostilities had broken out in 1642. He had actually been in Kingston-upon-Hull in the April of that year visiting his friend, the poet Andrew Marvell, when the Governor of the city had refused entry to King Charles, something that had led to open enmity between the King and his Parliament. He had only been able to leave the city once the first siege had ended. Civil war, the worst kind of conflict, one in which all men may be your enemy as a nation turns upon itself. Since leaving Hull, he had worked continuously to ease the horrific suffering he had encountered caused both by the ongoing military engagements and the rising lawlessness that was the inevitable result of a society that was falling apart. The circuit courts had ceased to function, no justice was to be had from the local courts, and the unscrupulous took their opportunity to wreak vengeance against those with whom they had any kind of quarrel. Petty crime and robbery were also rife.

This war had been both vicious and utterly confusing. The most difficult thing for Aziraphale at first had been deciding what side was righteous. It was important to the angel to try to understand what was correct so that he could act appropriately and send in reports that would satisfy Head Office. That was how he was made, and he tried to be scrupulous about it. At first, he had made the assumption that right lay on the side of the Crown. Having been thoroughly schooled by those in charge of him to abide by the principles of angelic hierarchy, something that was strictly observed in Heaven, he reasoned that those opposing the King who ruled, as was believed then, by divine right, must be in the wrong and that the Royalist forces had the high ground of the moral argument. It hadn’t taken him that long to realise that the behaviour of the King was anything but divine and that those championing the cause of Parliamentary power may have had a point. That didn’t last particularly long either before the angel’s habitual doubt crept in. As was typical in the affairs of people, everyone who wielded power was behaving badly.

The most bewildering thing for him was the whole issue of religious differences, which had a huge bearing on the miserable situation. Aziraphale had heard the teachings of Yeshua, listened as part of the crowd to his sermons, had endured the distress of seeing him nailed to the cross, killed for his gentle philosophy and as part of God’s plan to ensure salvation for the world. It seemed ironic to the angel that both sides in this particular conflict claimed to follow the observances laid down by the Son of God. Nothing that was being disputed here had anything to do with that. Their arguments were over petty, trifling things: the interpretation of words in different versions of their holy book (which was wildly inaccurate anyway in most cases, he knew, having been there and seen much of what was described in it), how one was supposed to worship and who was permitted to interpret the word of God. Although Aziraphale was capable of understanding the difficult maze of doctrinal differences intellectually, emotionally and in terms of faith, he found the whole thing extremely puzzling. Overall, he despaired at the fickle nature of humanity. It was breath-taking how they could act on occasion with such grace and then the next moment be so stupid, venal and nasty. They were appalling. They were wonderful. He loved them very much indeed.

As he walked, he considered what a colossal act of self-harm the current war was for this small island nation. The people who suffered most were those who had the least, ordinary people who just happened to be in the way. Some areas of the country were repeatedly overrun by soldiers as the progress of hostilities lurched from north to south and back again. The armies of both sides needed provisions and took what they wanted with little ceremony leaving communities devastated in their wake, with no food for the winter or seed for the following year’s crops. Settlements that were regarded as having particular allegiances were repeatedly sacked by the forces of the opposing side, their buildings burned, their churches despoiled, shops and stores of food ransacked, people killed and worse. Commerce with the usual trading partners abroad had just about ceased and the whole country was in a state of economic stagnation.

He had to be very careful about the clothes he wore. At a time when it was possible to be arrested and have all of your possessions and property sequestered simply for having the wrong coloured ribbons in your house, it was important to look right to avoid arousing suspicion. The two sides dressed very differently and he had been hard pressed to keep up as he travelled about, changing his clothes using minor miracles as he passed from area to area, trying desperately to keep out of trouble with the prevailing authorities.

In the end, he had given up worrying about who was in the right and had just helped those in need of it. There was so much distress. The conflict was punishing, differences of opinion dividing father from son, brother from brother, splintering family allegiances and friendships alike, and changing, constantly changing as the fortunes of each side waxed and waned. Aziraphale did what he could, healed wounds, soothed hurt minds and was a shadowy figure on the many battlefields also, helping soldiers from both sides, although in their extemis they were indistinguishable from one another. It was a drop in the ocean though, and it made him despondent, how little he could do. Then two years ago they had killed their King. It hadn’t halted the war as his son had immediately returned from overseas and tried to claim his birth right. That was all done now though, the last great battle having taken place just a few months ago. Things had not yet returned to normal, it would take a long time for the physical and psychological wounds to heal and the devastation to be put right. So he continued to make himself useful even though his power and stamina were wearing thin.

Aziraphale had loved this country for a long time and enjoyed the years he had spent here in the past. He remembered it as a vibrant centre of art, literature, poetry, and drama back in the days of Queen Bess and the early years of the reign of the old King, James. Now the Protector had banned all plays and entertainments and decreed that players were to be classed as ‘rogues’ after they had attempted to plead with Parliament to reopen the theatres in 1643. He was glad that sweet Will Shakespeare was not here to witness this. These were grim times, he reflected as he doggedly put one foot in front of the other, despite his tiredness.

He had a fond memory that he brought to his mind whenever he was particularly overwhelmed. Crowley at the Globe in his beautiful black doublet and hose, handsome as ever despite that ridiculous goatee beard, smiling at Burbage while he gave his Hamlet. They had met up again after his return from Edinburgh, had toasted the astonishing success of Shakespeare’s longest tragedy to date in a bustling inn near the waterside not far from the theatre. They had moved on from tavern to tavern, becoming rather inebriated as the night progressed, and he had ended up falling asleep with his head on his friend’s shoulder at the end of the evening. It had been a happy occasion, there was the usual teasing but no real dissent between them and he remembered with great fondness the warmth of having a companion who understood him.

Lancashire, he had liked it here when he first came, but that was a long time ago. It was still beautiful, a quiet beauty with the soft colours of the hills and moors blue and purple with heather and wild flowers, fading to muted greens and greys towards the horizon. The beauty hid ugliness of a kind though. The county had become a focus for the persecution of women that was happening all over the country under the guise of cleansing it of witches. Since the 1590s there had been an obsession with the identification and elimination of witches, encouraged by the late King James who had come down from Scotland with that particular bee buzzing in his bonnet. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’, it said in the Book of Exodus, part of the new ‘King James’ edition of the bible. Aziraphale had been sickened by the trial of the women from Pendle in 1612, poor bewildered souls who had appeared, disorientated and sobbing having confessed to all manner of unlikely activities under the influence of constant angry interrogation, the thumbscrews, sleep deprivation, and the famous witch finder’s pin. He knew more about the Devil than most and was aware of just how nonsensical the prevailing beliefs were; the harvesting of souls for torment just did not work that way and Satan was not one for granting power to mortals.

The executions were harrowing, death by strangulation and burning, all in the name of saving their souls, another ridiculous notion. Aziraphale had attended a few, sought to lessen the suffering of the poor victims, and once again marvelled at the cruelty men were capable of. Most of the convicted were just poor, older women who had the misfortune to be living on their own, possibly with a cat, in the wrong place at the wrong time, he didn’t think he had ever seen a real witch amongst them. As was so often the case with human scapegoats, these victims were easy pickings, the already marginalised, who had been pushed away to the edges of their communities and were now being shoved violently over the edge of them. It still went on, Hopkins may have retired but Aziraphale knew that Pulsifer, Dalrymple and their associates were still active in the north.

He hoped that the people here remained as warm and welcoming to travellers as they had previously been. He wanted to reach a settlement before nightfall. A thin rain fell, soaking him despite his woollen cloak. It was a rainy county too, he remembered. He was wearing a sober black suit with a high-collared white shirt and the ridiculous tall hat that was the mark of a non-conformist, safest for this area where the Parliamentarian supporters were in the majority. He could not imagine Crowley ever submitting to such a manner of dress. He pictured his friend in the extravagant style of clothing that Charles, the new King, now in exile, adopted, with the gorgeous highly decorated frock coats, beautiful waistcoats, silk breeches and stockings and large shapely hats, richly decorated with feathers. The hairstyle fashionable with the ‘Cavaliers’ as the Royalists were called then would suit him, too. Crowley’s hair was a riot of beautiful flame coloured curls when he wore it long.

Ah, Crowley, it always came back to him, Aziraphale mused as he walked. Trains of thought began with him, meandered around other subjects but always ended up with memories of his demon friend, the only being who understood what his life was like, the finest company he knew. He was aware that he should not have been thinking about him at all, by rights. It was simply wrong for an angel to have any thoughts about one of the Fallen, but he was quite sad and very lonely; he had not seen anything of Crowley for over thirty years.

Aziraphale could just about make out the shape of buildings further along ahead when he became aware of the fast approaching noise of hooves and wheels on the muddy road. A mail coach and four was rushing towards him, and where he was standing was directly in its path. The driver shouted at him to mind out of the way and he jumped to the side of the road. The grass there was long and very wet, his worn shoes had no grip and he slipped on the soaking greenery, losing his balance and sliding feet first into a deep ditch at the side of the road, his left ankle twisting beneath him as he fell. He found himself lying on his back, his legs calf deep in the water of the ditch, collar digging into his chin and the stupid hat nowhere to be seen. He let his head drop back, groaning. This was all he needed. The fall had shaken him badly, his ankle was throbbing, it was a nasty sprain, he could tell, and he did not feel able to heal himself. He was utterly fatigued and knew that he had no power left to expend on his own welfare. He lay there, feeling hopeless.

‘Good sir, what ails thee, can I help?’

The voice cut into his thoughts, he tilted his head back and saw the upside-down face of a woman looking over the edge of the ditch at him.

‘Oh, thank you,’ he said, his voice unsteady, ‘if you would be good enough to give me a hand out of here, that would be most helpful.’ He rolled on to his front, steadied himself on his good leg and looked up at his saviour.

The woman crouched down, offering him both of her hands. He took them in his, surprised at the strength of her grip as she pulled him smoothly up to stand on the road. He was soaked and looked down at himself in dismay. The woman smiled and passed him his hat.

‘Thou art hurt sir, tha will not be able to walk with such an injury.’ She was looking at his ankle, which was noticeably swollen. ‘Take my arm good sir and come with me to my house, ‘tis but a short walk away and I can bind thy foot and give thee some refreshment there. Tha dost look all in, if tha mindest not me saying’

Aziraphale was flustered but felt that he was in no position to refuse, some warmth and rest sounded very tempting and the thought of food made him feel a little faint.

‘If it does not trouble you, good madam,’ he replied ‘I would be very grateful to you, I have come a long way on foot today. I was hoping to find an inn near here, do you know of one?’

‘Aye, there is one along the way from here at Roughness. Once thou art rested, tha can find thy way there. Come on, thou canst manage a hirple, I’ll warrant’

She gave him her arm to hold and they made their way along slowly, Aziraphale putting as little weight on his injured ankle as possible and in some pain. He was embarrassed and felt awkward but the woman seemed in command of the situation and put him at his ease, smiling at him as he limped along. They approached a tiny cottage at the edge of what looked like a small cluster of houses at the side of the road. The garden teamed with plants, some flowers, surprisingly, still blooming this late in the year, and a few hens picked around the grass to the side of the building.

‘Is this where you live?’ asked the angel.

‘Yes, ‘tis called Crowtrees.’ She looked at him with a sly smile spreading over her face, as if she knew what he was thinking, which of course was ‘Crowley’. He smiled back nervously and blushed, not quite knowing why.

The inside of the cottage was warm and neat, the floor and furniture gleaming with polish, everything arranged perfectly in the compact space. A fire blazed in the hearth. The effect was cosy and welcoming. A large black cat with gleaming fur lay curled on the rug in front of the fire, it raised its head as they entered, opened one yellow eye, blinked and then went back to its nap. The kitchen table was set with two plates and two pewter tankards, a jug of small beer sat in the middle, bubbles winking at its brim, and there was a wooden rack sitting on the side near the oven where little cakes were cooling. The sweet, heavy smell of baking hung in the air. Aziraphale received the very strong impression that a visitor had been expected.

‘I hope that I am not disturbing you,’ he said.

‘Not at all, do not trouble thaself sir, sit and enjoy the warm. I think perhaps tha would best eat and drink first and I shall see to thy poor ankle betimes’.

She took his cloak from him and indicated a tall wooden chair with armrests and a carved back near to the fire and he sat. She drew up a stool for his injured foot and gestured for him to raise his leg, removing his sodden shoe and placing his foot on the stool. She then took a seat across the table from him.

The beer was poured and his plate heaped with cakes. She nodded at him and took a drink herself, sitting back and gazing at the fire. He took a sip and ventured a mouthful of cake. It tasted of honey and spices and was very good indeed. He had soon polished off four of them and almost finished his beer. She reached over and topped up his cup without comment. He soon felt warm and drowsy, lulled into a kind of stupor by the silence and the good food. He looked over at his hostess. She was a handsome woman of middle years with a glossy head of brown hair that reached past her shoulders. Her brown-eyed gaze was direct and she had a humorous lift to her mouth. There was something about her, Aziraphale felt, something powerful. The atmosphere in the tiny cottage was comforting and he felt himself relaxing for the first time in months.

‘You stay there sir, I mun just go and shut up my hens so that they are not caught by that wicked red fox and I shall be back directly to see to thy foot’

The woman got up and left the house, latching the door behind her. Aziraphale, full of cake and home-brewed beer and comfortable in the warm silence, gradually fell asleep.

***

Agnes Nutter looked down at the angel dozing peacefully at her kitchen table, his fair curls tinged with gold from the light of the fire. He looked innocent in sleep, and there was no indication of his ethereal nature evident in his sweet face and outward appearance. Of course she had known he was coming. Once she had received the prophecy and written it down in her notebook, she saw what it meant immediately. That morning she had gathered eggs from her hens and set to work baking for her visitor. The prophecy stressed that he must be given a place to rest and sustenance as he was here on the Lord’s work and was almost spent by what he had been through. He would require her gift of healing too. She should set to work at once, she realised, for it must be done before he woke. Her power would not affect his but the process would likely disturb him and she was unsure what view an angel would take of what she was about to do. He did not appear intimidating, but might be dangerous if roused to wrath.

Agnes had become accustomed to the disapproval of her fellow countrymen. It had been easier when her husband was still living but since his death, she had become aware that she was the subject of gossip, local women stopping their conversations and looking askance at her when she appeared in the local provisions merchant to buy her flour and grain for her hens. It didn’t stop them coming to her when they needed help, mind, and she did not let it stop her from giving that help when she could. It had soured her opinion of her neighbours though, and she found herself spending less effort on being pleasant with them than she had formerly. Let them think what they would, she was a witch, had always been so and she felt no shame, only pride in her true nature. It wasn’t what they thought, at any rate, what gifts she had were naturally born, they had nothing to do with darkness and the Devil. Her powers came from her understanding of the earth, the plants that grew in it and the strange energy that she drew from it. She would have no truck with Satan, she had more sense than that.

She knelt down by the stool where the angel’s swollen foot rested and placed her hand very lightly on his ankle. Closing her eyes and concentrating, she spoke the charm softly.

‘I handled the hurtchune

I handle yow

Principalitie

In the name of all that be

Stocks and stones

Thorne bushes, ashen trees

And the waves of the sea

Bear thy sores off thee’

She felt the warm pulse of her power leave her hand and something give and resettle in the limb beneath it. She opened her eyes and looked up to find a pair of blue/grey eyes gazing steadily back at her. She sat up and they stared at each other. The angel spoke, in a much colder voice than before.

‘What, exactly, do you think you are doing?’ 

***

‘Be not alarmed good sir, I was just looking at thy ankle, I shall fetch a bandage and bind it for thee directly.’

The woman would no longer meet his eyes with hers as she made to leave the room, her face flushed.

Aziraphale wasn’t frightened, he felt nothing in the room to be seriously worried about. Something had happened though, and it was something that the woman didn’t want him to know about. He may have been an angel but he was not a fool. He could sense the presence of power. It wasn’t either occult or ethereal power, it was, in fact, something he had not encountered before. He felt in his mind for the state of his ankle, where she had rested her hand just now, and noticed the change there.

‘You have healed me somehow! Good lady, please explain!’

The woman turned from the door where she had been about to leave the room and crossed back to stand in front of him, her eyes dark and face defiant.

‘I know what thou art, thou hast been sent here for my help.’ she said, her speech firm and jaw set.

Aziraphale was shocked. How could she know anything about him, and what was it that she thought she knew? Something strange was happening here, he had to find out what was going on.

‘What are you then, and what do you know of me?’ he asked her.

‘I am a wise woman, what some might call a witch. Best that I not tell thee my name as I would not have thee reveal this to another soul. I have the gift of foresight and healing and a certain understanding of folk when I am with them. I know from a prophecy I received some time back that thou art the Angel of the Eastern Gate and that th’art here to give succour to us in this our time of trouble.’ she replied, returning to her seat at the table again, looking at him darkly as if challenging him to judge her for what she was.

Aziraphale frowned, his heart sinking. He had never previously either revealed himself or been revealed for what he was to any human. It made him feel vulnerable. If she told anyone of this, he would be forced to leave immediately, and that would be unfortunate, as he had received clear instructions to remain in this area for a few more years yet. Head office would not be pleased if it became known that his real identity had been revealed to a mortal being. She seemed to understand his consternation because she raised her hand as if to calm him.

‘Worry not, angel, I shall not tell another soul of what thou art, nor that tha hast been here. They would not believe me anyroad, I am not trusted here anymore, no witch can call her home safe these days.’ She was sharp, clearly resenting the implication that she might betray him.

Aziraphale was relieved and nodded, acknowledging what she had said, then looked anguished as he remembered the fate of many women believed to be as this one was.

‘Oh yes, the trials! You must take care, especially as you do have…powers.’ He looked down at his ankle then back up at the woman, and a smile, like a small sunrise, spread across his face.

‘I am forgetting my manners, I must thank you for your discretion and for what you have done here.’

He moved his ankle gingerly in a circle and then more confidently, putting the foot to the ground and raising his toes to test it.

‘It feels as good as new, I am very grateful to you madam. Can I ask you…I have never met a, erm, wise woman before. I can actually sense your power. Would it be terribly rude of me to enquire where it comes from?’

Agnes had never met an angel before either, the whole situation was extremely odd even to one such as herself. When she had received the prophecy she had no idea what to expect at all. She was a reasonably devout woman and literate enough to have read her bible diligently. The angels described in the good book sounded rather alarming and even though she was a woman of no little courage, she had been somewhat concerned as to what was going to end up on her doorstep that day. She had comforted herself with the thought that the angel wasn’t likely to be too terrifying if it lived on earth and gave assistance to people. What she had not expected was anything like this rather soft, politely spoken, apologetic and kind person she had in front of her, blushing and asking in an interested way if she would mind awfully telling him all about her supernatural powers. It was rather nice actually, she felt both seen and accepted, and it made a huge change from what she was used to. She softened, and explained, her voice warm once more.

‘I were born with it, I think. I were not aware of it until I met a man called John Buchanan when I were but a damosel. He saw what I was and helped me see it too by leading me at twilight one evening to a field where he made me to hold a hurtcheon while he said an incantation over me. Then I came into my power.’

‘And how do you use it?’ asked the angel.

‘The gift of prophecy is of little use, most of what comes to me means nothing now, it speaks of times hereafter. I write them down and keep my notebook by. Some of them are meant for me, and give me time to prepare for what I need to do. The healing I use to help those that seek me out. It has allowed me keep the wolf from my door. People bring gifts and sometimes pay me when I heal them. Things have not been so easy since my good man died, he accepted me for what I am. Since he has been gone it has been harder to get by…’

‘I am so sorry to hear it. You must keep yourself safe my dear.’ said the angel, gently.

‘Oh, I know well when my time will be, I am not afeared of it, I am not _nice_ thou knowst, Principalitie, I shall not die quietly, I tell thee that.’ She looked grimly defiant.

‘I see,’ said Aziraphale, gravely, ‘and your prophesies, what will happen to them, after you are gone?’

‘That vexes me’, she frowned, ‘I have them in my notebook but my hand is not the clearest and I would that they be handed down to those of my family that come after me. I have a daughter and son-in-law in Roughness’

‘I may be able to help with that,’ said Aziraphale, his face brightening, ‘before the present troubles, I lived in London. I know of a publisher there who would be interested in making your prophesies into a book, to publish them. The proprietor, a Master Bilton, was saying to me a while ago that he would like to publish a book of prophecy, they have become terrifically popular recently. I can give you his address. If you write them out and send them there, he will definitely consider them, I know it.’

‘Aye,’ said Agnes, considering this, ‘and would I get a copy of this book, if they do think to publish it?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Aziraphale, ‘the author is always sent a copy for themselves.’

‘Right then, that sounds a good idea. If tha would give me his address, I will set to work once thou art gone. Thank thee kindly.’ She smiled. ‘Now, angel, only a few things more and tha must get to the inn in Roughness, it would not do for thee to be seen staying here o’erlong.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Thank you so much good madam for all that you have done. I should say the cakes were delicious and your beer is very good. I feel so much better for the rest, I am most grateful to you. Now, if you have paper and something with which to write, I will leave you that address.’

Agnes went to her dresser and found a battered notebook, a pen and a small bottle of ink. She opened the book at the back and smoothed down the last page, offering the writing implements to the angel. He unscrewed the bottle, dipped the pen in the ink and wrote the details she needed in his clear hand.

‘Tell them Master Fell gave you this and recommends you to them. I have assisted them in the past, it may help.’ Aziraphale rose to leave, putting on his shoe and reaching for his hat and cloak where they hung near the door. Agnes lay her hand on his arm for a moment.

‘This may not mean anything to thee now but tha should know that I will be able to help thee, _at_ _the end_,’ she emphasised the last three words, ‘Remember me and take what thou needst to know from what is in front of thee.’

Aziraphale looked puzzled. She rolled her eyes and said in an exasperated voice, ‘I said, ‘twill mean nothing now, just remember that I will _help thee again_’ The angel nodded.

She smiled now, that sly smile that he remembered from before, ‘And one more thing. Thou lovest where tha think thou ought not, I can see that in thee. Being of love that thou art, there is a partiality in thee for one particular being, tha knows full well of what I speak.’

Aziraphale blushed and stammered out ‘I… I don’t know what you can possibly mean by that, perhaps, madam, you are confused, angels are not designed to love in that way, we are never, ever, partial.’

‘Methinks the angel doth protest too much,’ she was grinning now, her eyes dancing, ‘fret not, foolish Principalitie, tha should know that this love is not misplaced, there is no sin in it, I feel it strongly. I fear tha will not listen but hear me now, love him, that bright star, and shrink not from it. Now, that is all I have for thee. I wish thee well, angel, may God speed thee on thy way.’

Aziraphale, still blushing, stepped out of Agnes Nutter’s cottage and went on his way, lost in thought. He really wasn’t going to think about what she had just said, not at all, ever. She might be a healer, but the other thing? Absolute nonsense, had to be. Well, it didn’t seem likely that she could _actually _see into the future did it?

Despite his stern remonstrations with himself, part of his mind was leaping up and down and cheering. He shut it down, imprisoned it in a corner of his brain and tried, quite successfully owing to his habitual way of thinking, to ignore it and never think of it again. Resolute, he set off along the road to Roughness.

***

Aziraphale didn’t see Crowley again for another nine years. They met again in London during the city-wide celebrations for the new King’s restoration. Crowley was beautifully attired in the latest fashion, exactly as he had imagined with the addition of extremely elegant boots. His hair was long and hat large and stylishly trimmed, and he looked every bit as dashing as Aziraphale had expected. He had never been so pleased to see anyone in his life. They had got very drunk and told each other of their various adventures since they had last seen each other. Crowley had been in Europe having a miserable time during what would later become known as the Thirty Years War, nearly as bad as the bloody awful fourteenth century, was his verdict. Aziraphale told him about the civil war and all of his various adventures but he kept quiet about what had happened in Lancashire that day and, from then on, continued to steadfastly ignore that last prophecy of the wise woman he had encountered in Crowtrees.

***

And he is still ignoring it now, isn’t he? Well, perhaps the time has come to do something about it, not immediately, there is the end of the world coming and he has to try to prevent it, but soon, as soon as he can manage, if they have any time left, that is. Aziraphale goes to the kitchen to make more cocoa, bringing it back to his desk.

‘Right Agnes my dear, let’s see what you have for us, shall we?’

**Author's Note:**

> The charm that Agnes uses and her description of how she came into her healing power are taken from a real case in the records dating from 1633. We are fascinated by witches but should never forget that these were real women who suffered and died for being different, they were often healers too. I took the liberty of altering Agnes' prophecy number 3008 to suit the purposes of the story. I hope that Neil Gaiman might forgive me.


End file.
